The fading voices across the static

Dear Delyara, I listened to an old voice note from my mother tonight, recorded months ago, just asking if I was eating well and reminding me to rest. I didn't reply at the time because I was too busy optimizing server databases and adjusting property holding structures. Hearing her voice now—so gentle, so fragile, and noticeably older—makes me want to weep with a raw, agonizing sense of shame. I tell myself that this grueling UK exile is for the legacy, for the future, but the truth is I am trading the irreplaceable, final years of the people who love me for a handful of financial metrics. What good is an empire if the people who gave you life aren't there to see it stand?